MEI LAN FOUND A stool and carried it out into the garden. On her return from England some months before, she had found Bougainvillaea House in a derelict state, still scarred by bomb damage, squatters inhabiting its decrepit shell. She had immediately set about reclaiming the place. For a time then she had lived with Little Sparrow in the East Coast home while Bougainvillaea House was being repaired and the vagrants moved out. Ah Siew was still hobbling around serving Little Sparrow, weathered skin loose on her bones and eyes blue with cataracts; during her time in England Mei Lan had missed the old woman more than she liked to admit. Ah Siew was now a great age, although no one knew exactly how old she was. She squatted down on her haunches beside Mei Lan in the garden of Bougainvillaea House, breath rattling in her stringy chest, chewing on toothless gums. A lack of teeth now limited her choice of food, her joints needed rubbing with medicated liniment and her mind was developing holes, but she was still around. The old woman placed her sleeping pallet at the foot of Mei Lan’s bed once more, and each night the sound of her snoring reassured Mei Lan, as it had when she was a child.
When the decision to return to Singapore was made she wrote to Mr Cheong of Bayley McDonald & Cheong who had always handled Lim Hock An’s legal business. Mr Cheong agreed to take her into the firm, although he made it clear that he was setting a precedent by employing a woman.
The garden of Bougainvillaea House was once again furrowed with open runnels, and bare-backed coolies threw up spade after spade of damp soil just as they had when Lim Hock An buried his precious jade and opium and Second Grandmother’s jewellery. Now, at Mei Lan’s order the treasure was being exhumed. The remaining sickly bushes of bougainvillaea had been ripped up and lay in a pile, black-clawed roots exposed. Mei Lan was filled with a sense of déjà vu and fought to control her tears. One by one, the stout wooden boxes of Lim Hock An’s jade were hauled up into the light, dark and damp from long burial, clods of earth dropping from them. Although neglect and shelling had destroyed the garden and few of the original bougainvillaea bushes remained, Mei Lan knew exactly where to find her grandfather’s priceless cache. His ghost seemed to sit beside her, wrapped like old porcelain in his ancient purple dressing gown, Second Grandmother beside him. As each box was unearthed her throat tightened with emotion for all that had befallen the great House of Lim; apart from soft-brained Bertie, there was no male line of descent. Her father, Boon Eng, had died in Hong Kong in an air raid, but this news had not come to them until the war was over.
Once Lim Hock An’s treasure was unearthed she vowed to restore the garden, planting fresh bougainvillaea. Already she had taken down the fence her grandfather had erected so long ago along the canal, to stop her meeting Howard. During the war the Japanese had built a narrow walkway across the storm drain and the two lots of land were now firmly linked. Bougainvillaea House, its dark corners filled with memories, even if painful, comforted her. She had made a bedroom habitable and also part of the sitting room with a desk and a sofa and a small dining table. For the moment she needed little more, and the other rooms of the house lay empty. Mei Lan had been away almost seven years. As the boxes of Lim Hock An’s valuables emerged from their damp grave, they were carried into the house and temporarily stacked in the old dining room.
‘Belvedere boy coming home,’ Ah Siew croaked out the news suddenly, chewing her gums, squinting up at Mei Lan with unusual lucidity. Mei Lan looked at the old woman, her grey hair now so thin the scalp could be seen beneath, the tight knot of once luxuriant hair no bigger than a walnut, and felt the shock ripple through her.
Whenever Mr Cheong had a case concerning a difficult female, Mei Lan was called in to participate; she was the only woman in the office of Bayley McDonald & Cheong. Otherwise, most of her work centred upon the bread and butter issue of conveyancing, and was not what she had imagined herself doing on her return to Singapore. As Mei Lan entered the office after the trying weekend with Lim Hock An’s treasure, she was told that Mr Cheong wanted to see her urgently.
‘The woman is in prison for attempted murder of her husband. It would be useful to interview her; the husband has enough means to take legal action and has approached me. I am undecided whether or not I should take the case.’ Mr Cheong sighed, and Mei Lan recognised the bored note in his voice at the thought of yet another neurotic woman.
‘He wants her committed to a mental asylum. He says she is mad. You had better go and hear her story before I consider the case,’ Mr Cheong added. Most of the cases Mei Lan worked on with Mr Cheong involved women living in polygamous marriages and Mr Cheong could never hide his lack of interest; it was rumoured that he himself kept a concubine.
There was no way she could refuse to go to the prison. Mei Lan had steeled herself for the visit, and knew it would be a test. As the outer door of the prison shut behind her, Mei Lan found herself facing an inner door, with a disembodied eye staring at her through a spyhole. At last a bolt was drawn and the door swung open. Already, she was trembling and forced herself forward, hearing the heavy slam of metal behind her and the bolting of a lock. A stout Tamil woman in a uniformed khaki jacket buttoned over a green cotton sari, led her through two further doors and down a dingy corridor to the Matron’s office.
All the cells opened on to the corridor and through the bars she could see the women prisoners, three or four to a cell, sewing pieces of thick canvas. Other women were making brooms, collecting straw into bundles of even length; they observed her passively as she passed. Her mouth was dry and she drew a deep breath to steady herself. In the YMCA on her way to interrogation, she had walked down the corridor between the cells and other prisoners had shouted encouragement, braving the guards’ recriminations. A clergyman in the end cell always chanted the Lord’s Prayer as she passed. Now, as she walked behind the warder, her heart pulsed in her throat, it was difficult to breathe. Unable to look at the barred cages to either side of her, she stared at her feet, fear darting through her. At any moment, she was afraid, her body would refuse to move forward, she would turn and run to beat hysterically on the closed door, pleading to be freed. If for a moment she raised her eyes, she knew she would see Nakamura at the end of the corridor, the faint light skating on his polished boots, hands behind his back, waiting.
The Tamil warder stopped before an open door. Inside, at a desk sat the Matron, a large-boned Eurasian woman with circles of dark pigmentation under her eyes. The room was surprisingly bright and sunny with a patterned rug and a shelf of files, and Mei Lan took the chair the woman offered.
‘Would you like a cold drink or a cup of coffee?’ The woman stared at her appraisingly. Mei Lan struggled to control her emotions, knowing fear lay open on her face.
‘Just some breathlessness I sometimes suffer from,’ she replied, feeling an excuse was needed, and the Matron nodded sympathetically.
‘The prisoner is in the workroom; I will have her called. The women start making postbags or brooms in their cells, then later go to the workroom for finishing,’ Matron explained, after ordering the warder to bring a bottled drink for Mei Lan.
‘What crimes are these women imprisoned for?’ Mei Lan asked conversationally while they waited for the prisoner. A bottle of orangeade arrived, and she drew the juice up gratefully through a waxed straw; her breath was flowing more easily now.
‘The usual women’s crimes of petty stealing, hawking wares in the wrong area and, of course, prostitution. They’re usually illiterate women, abandoned by their husbands and with children to support. Your prisoner however is not illiterate; she has had some basic education and her husband is a relatively rich man. She’s not the kind of prisoner we usually get, even if she is accused of attempted murder,’ the Matron explained.
Soon, the warder returned escorting a slightly built woman with pale lips and anxious eyes. When the Matron left them alone, Mei Lan drew up a chair opposite her own, and told the girl to sit down.
‘What is your name?’ Mei Lan asked. Even in her grey prison uniform of loose trousers and shirt, the woman had a neat appearance and an intelligent face, the drawn back hair exposing fine boning.
‘My name is Fang Ei Ling,’ the girl replied and Mei Lan felt a stab of shock at hearing the name that had been her mother’s.
‘Your husband accuses you of attempted murder. If he succeeds, you could get years in prison or a mental asylum,’ Mei Lan told her.
‘He’s taken my children,’ Ei Ling sat forward in desperate appeal. A single strand of shorter hair tucked behind her ear fell over her face and she pushed it distractedly back into place.
‘How many children do you have?’ Mei Lan asked.
‘Four. Now that I am in here, Husband’s First Wife and Second Wife throw my children out of the house each morning without food or proper clothes to wear, barefoot. They only care for their own children. I am Husband’s Third Wife and he keeps us all in the same house. He is an old man; I did not want to marry him but my stepmother tricked me into it. He’s a rich man and paid her a good bride price for me. My father is dead and could not protect me; I was not even fifteen when Husband married me. Now he has divorced me and I knew nothing of it until it was done. He has taken my children and also married again, another young girl of fifteen who he has brought into the house in place of me. Can he do so much without me knowing?’ The girl was distraught but spoke clearly, making an effort at control.
‘You stuck a knife into him,’ Mei Lan reminded her.
‘He beat me, and he beat my children. He punched me in the stomach so hard that two times babies came out dead. One was already seven months.’ Ei Ling pressed her lips together at the memory.
‘Was it after this that you tried to kill him?’
‘Yes,’ the girl answered, and shivered.
‘How old are you?’ Mei Lan asked. Women like Ei Ling had no way to respond to a husband’s dismissal. Always ending up in dire situations, many were forced to turn to prostitution to survive or keep their children. Custody of children was always given to the husband. Women could rarely turn to their own family for help, because of the shame they had incurred for everyone by not pleasing a husband or their in-laws.
‘I am twenty-three,’ Ei Ling answered. The grey prison clothes drained all colour from her face.
Since the woman had entered the room and begun her story, Mei Lan had had the feeling of something familiar closing over her. The rotting odour of Second Grandmother’s broken feet as the bandages were removed came strongly to her over the years, as did the memory of First Grandmother Chwee Gek, discarded by her husband for Second Grandmother Lustrous Pearl, a fifteen-year-old sing-song girl. She remembered Ah Siew’s kongsi fong, where she had learned that women could be sold for a bag of rice or a few silver pieces, just as Little Sparrow had been sold to Lim Hock An. Even her own mother, the other Ei Ling, in spite of beauty and education, had been dismissed and devalued by her husband. Now, another Ei Ling sat before her, too proud to sob, with little in life to nourish her and raising for Mei Lan many disturbing questions.
Later, Mei Lan gave Mr Cheong her evaluation. ‘It is the usual marriage thing. She has been discarded for another woman, divorced without her knowledge and her children taken from her. It made her angry; nothing more, nothing less.’ Mei Lan spoke savagely.
‘The husband is quite a well-to-do man. She stuck a knife into him, he nearly died,’ Mr Cheong replied, unmoved.
‘If he brings a case, I will defend her.’ The words sprang away from Mei Lan, as if it was her life that was being threatened.
‘No need to get so worked up. Illiterate women are conditioned to expect such lives. Her husband, by contrast, is an educated middle-class man and has done relatively well in his printing business. She should be glad she has such security; what more would such a woman want? I doubt she will have money for a legal defence,’ Mr Cheong said and raised his eyebrows humorously over tortoiseshell spectacles. Mei Lan felt emotion billowing up and struggled to hold it down.
‘That is the trouble; she will be easy to lock away. As you know, she is not illiterate and no woman ever expects such a life – they just cannot hope for anything better. She deserves some kind of legal aid. Women like her have nowhere to turn,’ Mei Lan replied grimly, holding Mr Cheong’s gaze, her thoughts taking shape as she spoke.
‘Yes, it is a fact, they have nowhere to turn, but that is the world we live in and we must bow to its inadequacies. There is nothing you can do about it,’ Mr Cheong reminded her, his voice frayed by impatience.
‘I will defend her even if she cannot pay,’ Mei Lan announced determinedly, turning to the door, hearing Mr Cheong’s exasperated sigh behind her.
That night Mei Lan slept fitfully. In her dreams she stood again in her room in Lim Villa. From the photograph on the tallboy, Grandmother Chwee Gek, still sitting erect with the soon-to-die child on her lap, stepped out before her, elegant in a high-necked blouse, long dark skirt and hanging jade earrings. Her sorrow echoed painfully through Mei Lan.
‘See my large ugly feet,’ Chwee Gek said, raising her skirt to reveal the dainty toe of a beaded shoe, tears filling her eyes. ‘Too big for him.’ She shook her head sadly. When Mei Lan looked again at the tallboy she saw that the phoenix now sat upon it, its feathers iridescent with light, its proud head erect upon its slender neck. As the great bird shifted on its perch, something turned within her. When she looked again, Grandmother Chwee Gek had shrunk back into the silver frame and the child sat once again on her lap. Mei Lan woke to the hammering of her own emotions and the first weak light of the day.
Lim Hock An’s exhumed treasure was stacked in the empty dining room of Bougainvillaea House. Mei Lan ached with memory as she stood before the mountain of damp stained boxes, remembering that day with JJ in Lim Villa’s jade museum as the pieces were packed away for the move to Bougainvillaea House. The treasure had never seen the light of day again, first lying boxed and in store, and then buried before the Japanese arrived. Closing her eyes and breathing in the earthy scent of damp wood, Mei Lan knew now what she would do with it. The opium must be relinquished to the government, but the jade belonged to her, as did the suitcase of Second Grandmother’s jewellery. The best jade she would give to the Raffles Museum, but lesser pieces could be sold to good profit as could the jewellery, and the money once invested would give her additional income. This solution filled her with relief and, as she began to think of the details such a transaction would involve, a commotion was heard outside the house, followed by a thumping on the front door.
‘Mei Lan!’ Little Sparrow’s voice screamed hysterically.
‘Come quickly, they will arrest her,’ Little Sparrow shouted, bursting into the room and pulling Mei Lan out of the house towards a waiting taxi.
‘Who will be arrested?’ Mei Lan asked; she had never seen Little Sparrow in such a wild state. Her usually immaculate hair was dishevelled, her face twisted with emotion.
‘Greta will be arrested; the schoolchildren are demonstrating against the government.’ Little Sparrow’s voice splintered into sobs. Mei Lan dismissed the taxi and ran to her own car, pushing Little Sparrow inside.
‘The students are against the government calling up young boys for National Service. I cannot control her. She has become a communist. Those communists have got into all the Chinese Middle Schools and led innocent children astray,’ Little Sparrow explained between sobs.
In the few years Mei Lan had been away in England, Greta had left childhood behind. Pigtails still thumped about her shoulders, but in the demure school uniform there was now the body of a woman, and Little Sparrow was involved in a continuous mother and daughter battle.
When they arrived at Clemenceau Avenue, the road was a mess of broken glass. Bottles had been thrown, there was a sulphurous smell in the air, but no students were to be seen. Whatever battle had taken place, it had already moved on. A few anxious parents stood about in the road asking for information and conferring fearfully. Little Sparrow leaned out of the car window to stop a passing policeman.
‘Where is my child?’ she screamed.
‘The riot squads are at King George V Park, so they must be there,’ the man replied, hurrying off as Mei Lan parked the car.
On the road before them empty trucks were lined up, first aid was being given to injured policemen and schoolchildren in the back of ambulances. Some handcuffed students were being pushed into police vans. Little Sparrow ran up to the knot of worried parents with Mei Lan following her.
‘My son registered for the National Service Ordinance before the deadline expired; he didn’t want to, but he saw no other way,’ a man told Little Sparrow.
‘We Chinese are given no rights in the colony; why should we do National Service? Chinese High School and Chung Cheng High School both sent petitions to the Governor demanding total exemption from National Service, and they received no reply,’ another man said.
‘The police will kill our children; they have guns and batons,’ a mother shouted, turning to run in the direction of Fort Canning and King George V Park. Little Sparrow gasped and ran after her; again Mei Lan followed. As they neared the park Mei Lan heard the rousing rhythm of ‘John Brown’s Body’ being sung.
The park lay along the Fort Canning incline and was bordered by railings the length of the road. Against these white railings, in their white uniforms, the students were lined up several deep. Although they sang loudly to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’, they yelled out different words:
‘Unity is strength, Strength is iron, Strength is steel. Harder than iron, Stronger than steel, March towards the glorious ideal. Eliminate all corrupt systems – On freedom and on New China the brilliant light shines.’
Mei Lan craned her neck to see over the dark mass of heads, in the hope of recognising Greta. It was a shock to find that some of the students appeared no more than twelve years old although others, whose schooling had been interrupted by the war, seemed well above average age. Rows of riot police behind wicker shields were lined up ready to charge.
‘We must find her.’ Little Sparrow tried to push through the crowd, while angry policemen forced everyone back. Mei Lan found herself against a low wall and managed to scramble up on to it.
‘Get up here,’ she said, pulling Little Sparrow up beside her so that they had a view over the heads of the crowd. Confused policemen were alternately tying students to the railings and trying to prise them away. The children met each tactic with wild responses, kicking, struggling and hitting out at the frustrated policemen, who could find no humane way to subdue them. Older children screamed encouragement to younger children; police brought their batons down hard upon the boys but backed away from the girls. Then, as the riot squads prepared to charge, the girls crouched down in a protective cordon behind which the boys showered the police with a hail of stones and bottles. The advancing riot squad held wicker shields over their heads and the girls shouted and jeered ecstatically.
‘She’s there. I saw her,’ Little Sparrow screamed, preparing to jump down from the wall.
‘You can’t get to her – and look: something new is happening,’ Mei Lan said. She held on to Little Sparrow.
Things had suddenly quietened: a boy was now talking to the police. Soon, the empty trucks they had seen in Clemenceau Avenue appeared and drew to a noisy halt behind the crowd of onlookers. The students were filing away from the railings in an orderly manner, the girls no longer yelling harridans and the boys defiant but subdued. The crowd parted to make way for them and police helped them into the trucks.
‘Where is she?’ Little Sparrow shouted. Jumping off the wall, she battled through the crowd trying to reach the trucks but eventually came up against a cordon of police who refused to let her pass.
‘Where are you taking them?’ Little Sparrow screamed as the lorries started up and began driving off with their cargo of uniformed schoolchildren. A Sikh officer appeared and asked Little Sparrow to control her violent behaviour.
‘The students have requested to return to the Chung Cheng High School in the same trucks that brought them here. You can collect your child from the school. They are going peacefully of their own accord.’ The policeman gave instructions in a loud voice to a crowd of anxious parents.
Mei Lan and Little Sparrow returned to their car and began the drive to Chung Cheng High School. When they arrived the trucks had already deposited the students. The school gate was shut and locked, and a group of schoolboys stood guard outside before a growing crowd of parents waiting to see what would happen next. Little Sparrow peered through the loose weave of a fence and saw a large playground filled with white-uniformed students.
‘We have orders not to open the gate,’ the boy guards answered stubbornly.
‘I must see my daughter. She may be hurt,’ Little Sparrow shouted, joining other parents in protest. One of the boys stood on a box to make an announcement.
‘The police have arrested forty-four of us. Twenty-six students have needed first aid, but there is nothing serious. Everyone else is all right.’ The boy stared apprehensively at the hundreds of parents pressing about him.
‘How many of you have locked yourselves in the school?’ a father shouted.
‘We are two thousand,’ the boy replied.
‘What are you going to do?’ another parent asked.
‘We are camping here until the National Service Ordinance is abolished,’ a different boy answered.
‘That is nonsense. You might wait for ever!’ someone shouted.
‘The service is only a few days a year. Just do it and get it over with. Why make all this fuss for just a few days?’ a woman suggested.
‘The colonial power calls us “aliens”. They give Chinese educated in English-medium schools their citizenship, but we Chinese educated in the Chinese vernacular schools are shunned; we cannot claim citizenship, political rights or get jobs. We cannot practise law or medicine or qualify for any post in government service. We are forced to live in a separate world, a lower-class world; we are not included in the life of the colony. Why should we do their National Service even for one day?’ The boy spoke angrily and his fellow guards at the gate shouted agreement.
‘We will fight only for China,’ the boy yelled, raising a clenched fist to the crowd.
‘How will you eat in there?’ Little Sparrow demanded fiercely, more interested in practicalities.
‘We’re agreed that parents can bring us food, but it must be deposited here with us at the gate,’ the boy replied in a more conciliatory tone.